The shower curtain

Every time I enter my bathroom I feel I’m in fucking Psycho. The shower curtain is closed, to avoid the mould to grow, and when I go to brush my teeth and experience great pain doing it, I imagine there is someone sitting in the bath, waiting for me to spit the toothpaste to appear. A bit like Bloody Mary but eh I wouldn’t have to call his name three times while looking in the mirror. By the way, the Lost Mary is definitely lost and apparently my gums knew about it before the main English papers. I’m glad. I’m glad I stopped doing something before it became actually banned. The empty honey pot is on my shelves, with their name, and their address. Also on my Amazon account. How do you let go of someone if their name is engraved in every corner of your existence? I received the parcel. The last word of his mum. An X. A speaker won at the Golden Blog Awards. A headband that is not mine. Perhaps another ex-girlfriend. Or one of his sisters. I will never know. I don’t want to know. Every time I enter my bathroom I feel that all my feelings are hiding behind this curtain, between my tea tree soap and their expensive verveine shower gel and that they will jump on me when I’m going to wee at night. My head is like a shelter, where I protect myself from the bombing like in Chatsworth Road. I go back to it, to explore every little situation I have been in. I look into it with a magnifying glass. And I see over and over again the details that I might have missed. I watch them carefully, I touch them and like the statues in Musée d’Orsay I polish them with my hands until they’re no more than a smooth surface without asperity, without edge. Until they turn into 2 dimensional image that I can’t open anymore. Like when you’ve opened every door of your advent calendar at Christmas, and now you can just throw it away. It’s useless as it is. Until the situations become abstract memories that I can let go of. Until there is nothing to break behind the curtain anymore. 

Rupture – du latin rumpere – to break